


Reach

by colonel_bastard



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Codependency, Denial of Feelings, Experimentation, Fantasizing, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Neediness, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Prostate Massage, Self-Esteem Issues, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 20:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21021935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: “So,” Fuches says. “This is what you get up to when I’m not around, huh? Wouldn’t have pegged you for this sort of thing, Barry.”Pre-series. Barry deals with the consequences of curiosity and an overactive imagination.





	Reach

**Author's Note:**

> welcome back, friends! this fic makes several references to the events in [old habits die hard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19982761), so you might want to check that out first
> 
> thank you, random kink prompt generator, for giving me _prostate stimulation_ and _pillow biting,_ and thank you [eddy](https://twitter.com/Pervobirdo) for saying, "okay... but what if it's barry thinking about fuches"

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Barry frowns down at the screen of his phone, his brow furrowed as he reads and rereads the text from Fuches.

_ **Can’t make it. See you tomorrow.** _

Six words. Barry counts them out on the fingers of one hand plus the thumb again, and he’s left staring at the single, sparse digit with a sense of hollow disappointment. They were supposed to watch _Indiana Jones_ tonight. They hadn’t decided which one yet— Barry likes _Raiders of the Lost Ark_, but he knew that Fuches would make the pitch for _Last Crusade_. The pizzas were delivered a few minutes ago. Barry was keeping them warm in the oven while he waited for Fuches to show up with the beer. 

_ **Can’t make it. See you tomorrow.** _

Barry almost asks for an explanation, but he knows it would just be some vague bullshit, nothing close to the truth. If Fuches didn’t already tell him outright, then he doesn’t think it’s anything that Barry needs to know. That’s fine. Barry would be a hypocrite if he ever said they weren’t allowed to keep secrets from each other. Still, he really wishes he knew what Fuches chose instead. Sometimes it’s hard to tell where he falls on Fuches’s list of priorities. 

By the time Barry puts his phone back in his pocket he has the message committed to memory, and his empty hand absently taps the cadence of the six words against his thigh as he turns a slow, uncertain circle in his apartment, trying to figure out what to do next. It’s strange how disoriented he is by the sudden change of plans. After all, it’s not _that_ big of a deal. Fuches ditches out on movie nights all the time. It’s just that… Barry was really looking forward to it. 

The weeks between jobs can get so long and lonely. Barry tries to get out of the apartment as often as he can, going to the movies on his own, forcing himself to walk to the grocery store every once in a while instead of always ordering takeout. He’s just so afraid of getting lost again. It was too easy the first time. One day he didn’t feel like getting up from the couch, and the next thing he knew Fuches was telling him that he hadn’t left his house in months. 

Well. One more night alone won’t kill him. 

At a loss for anything else to do, Barry considers just grabbing the pizza and watching a movie on his own. Hey, look on the bright side— this way he won’t have to fight for _Raiders_. Besides, he just would have been buffaloed into _Crusade_, anyway. Now he can watch whatever he wants. 

By the time he makes it to the kitchen, however, he realizes that he’s lost his appetite. In fact, eating anything at all sounds like it would only make him sick. At least he has the presence of mind to switch off the oven. Later, after everything’s cooled off, he’ll come back and stick the leftovers in the fridge.

Turning around only makes him feel worse— then he has to see that the dining table is still pulled over in front of the TV, just waiting to be loaded up with pizza and beer. It’s not fair. Barry was so ready to spend the night sitting next to Fuches on the end of the bed, the empty boxes and bottles stacking up in front of them, the stale air of his self-imposed prison growing fresh again with conversation and laughter. No one makes Barry laugh like Fuches does. He has a knack for saying exactly the right thing at exactly the right time, usually some snide comment about whatever’s happening onscreen, something so perfect that Barry will think of it every time he sees that movie in the future.

With a heavy sigh, Barry grabs the table and hauls it back to its usual place against the wall. It’s supposed to make him feel less lonely when he sits down by himself, but then instead of settling dead center he just ends up automatically scooting over to one side anyway. The sudden vacant space beside him hurts more than he would have expected. He can’t even be bothered to turn on the TV. In frustrated silence, Barry flops onto his back, his feet on the floor and his hands tucked behind his head. 

It’s a bad idea. The longer he stays like that — too still, too quiet — the more his senses start to sharpen. All too soon he’s all too aware of that dreadful, distant... _ache_. It doesn’t ache like a wound. It aches like a hunger, like a vine straining towards sunlight. This always happens when he’s been alone for too long. Barry frowns and presses a hand over his belly in a futile attempt to soothe the pang, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the ceiling. He’s embarrassed, even though there’s no one there to see. He already knows what he’s going to do next.

It’s just bad timing, that’s the problem. Fuches is supposed to be here right now, and he’s not, so Barry is going to jerk off instead? That’s… suspicious. But wait, wait— it’s not like he’s actually going to jerk off _because_ he’s thinking about Fuches. He’s jerking off because he’s lonely, and he’s just thinking about Fuches because they were supposed to be watching a movie together. Nothing suspicious about _that_. Besides, Fuches helps him out with the loneliness all the time. It’s not a big deal. 

Eyes still locked on the ceiling, Barry reaches down to open his jeans by touch, fingers groping at the button and fly before his thumbs hook in the waistband and shove downwards. He plants his feet on the floor so he can lift up his hips and slide the jeans down to his knees, then lifts each foot in turn to shuck them all the way off and kick them into a tangled denim heap. God, he already feels completely naked, and he’s still in a t-shirt and socks and boxer briefs. On automatic reflex he cups one palm over his cock, already half-hard under the faded black cotton. It gets harder as Barry rocks the heel of his hand back and forth, the heat in his groin spreading with the steady, relentless advance of a forest fire, creeping up into his belly and down into his thighs. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling. He’s not sure why. 

It does feel… good. 

It also feels cheap, and pointless, and hopelessly predictable. 

Poor sad sack, home alone and feeling sorry for himself so he stumbles like an alcoholic for the first blind rush of serotonin he can get his hands on. Barry has done this exact same dance so many times that he has all the steps memorized. When he’s done here, he’ll get up and wander into the kitchen to eat a couple of slices of cold pizza, then crawl back into bed and finally, mercifully fall asleep. The only thing he can’t predict is what he’ll dream about. With any luck he won’t dream at all.

Here’s the thing: routines make him nervous. It’s a comfortable trap and he doesn’t trust himself not to walk right into it. Next thing he knows, Fuches will be coming over and telling him that he hasn’t left the apartment in months. Barry has to do something to change it up right here, right now, or this just might turn into the beginning of another bad stretch. 

The most obvious change would be to not jerk off at all, to get up and do something completely unexpected— but quite frankly, that’s not an option at this point. Barry rubs his painful hard-on through the front of his underwear, his breathing shallow and heated. He’s not strong enough to stop now.

There has to be something he can do to break the pattern. He’s tried it left-handed— he’s humped just about every piece of furniture in this apartment— he’s done it in the shower and on his back and even on his knees at the foot of the bed, his free hand braced in the conspicuous empty space on the mattress before him. In the end, the variations are limited and the novelty is bound to wear off of _anything_ sooner or later. By now Barry is starting to run out of ideas. 

_Except… there is that one thing._

Wait. _Wait_. Barry screws his eyes shut and tries to banish the thought before the intrusion can take hold, but it’s too late. His cock twitches eagerly in his grip as he imagines how easy it would be to reach down between his legs and slip a finger inside himself. 

_You know what they say, Berkman— don’t knock it till you try it._

Just the idea is enough to make Barry yank his hand away from his dick in sudden, flustered embarrassment, as if his intentions have just been broadcast to the entire world— or even worse, to Fuches. God only knows what _he_ would say if he ever found out that Barry thought about that sort of thing. That’s the sort of thing that queers think about, and as Fuches would be the first to remind him, Barry is _not_ queer. Because Fuches _definitely_ isn’t queer, so that means Barry definitely isn’t either, or else the whole thing would be queer by default, and it’s definitely _not_. Which means Barry should definitely not be thinking about… that sort of thing.

_Not that it’s just for queers_, Barry tries to reason. _Plenty of guys do it with their girlfriends_. More than one raunchy anecdote in the barracks ended with a finger slipping up an asshole and a mind being blown, old preconceptions shattered and new horizons discovered. One guy laughed and said he was ruined for life— he could never go back. Barry remembers the confused mix of jealousy and curiosity spinning in his skull like a flipped coin. He hoped that one day he could find a girl who would just spring it on him like that. One thing he already knew for sure: he’d never be able to work up the guts to ask for it out loud. 

_But if you do it yourself, you never have to ask anyone. No one has to know. _

Barry squirms on his back, his feet shuffling uncertainly against the floor. _No one has to know_. After all, the only reason he’s in this mess is because he’s here all alone. He might as well take advantage of his solitude. He could do it right now, just this once. Just to try it. It’s curiosity, really, more than anything. Besides, plenty of guys do it with their girlfriends.

Very carefully, Barry slips his thumbs under the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs.

Then, on a sudden panicked impulse, he jumps up from the bed and scrambles over to make sure he put the chain on the front door. 

Fuches has his own key to the apartment. That’s a risk almost too catastrophic to comprehend. 

Chain on, deadbolt thrown, and Barry creeps back towards the bed like he’s approaching the edge of an especially daunting diving board. He tries reaching for his underwear but loses his nerve and ends up fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt instead. It’s such a long way down. After a strained beat, he goes to check the front door again. Then he uses the momentum of the walk back to carry him straight down to the mattress. No feet on the floor this time— he gets all the way in, sprawled on his back and staring at the ceiling while he fumbles clumsily out of his boxer briefs. 

If he felt naked before, he feels naked in _public_ now, his skin crawling like he just opened his eyes in a dream where he’s back in front of his high school PE class, called up to climb the rope only to discover that he forgot to wear pants. When he actually looks down at himself the feeling only gets worse. He’s so embarrassed by what he’s about to do that his erection seems to mock him, pointing up at him in an almost accusatory gesture— _that’s him, that’s the pervert. That’s the queer. _

Barry jerks his eyes back up towards the ceiling, mortified. Suddenly he can’t bear the thought of his cock just bobbing about in the open like that, and he hurries to roll over onto his stomach, hiding his face and his shame in the rumpled sheets. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s better than the alternative. He breathes in the stale smell of his empty bed and steels his nerves.

Then he gets up onto his hands and knees. 

He probably looks even more pathetic than he did before, but at least now he doesn’t have to look at himself. He can look at his hands instead, at his fingers splayed over the plaid pattern of the duvet cover, braced against the instinct to curl into nervous fists. His bare ass feels as conspicuous and exposed as a lit cigarette in a midnight foxhole. It occurs to him that he actually has no idea what he’s doing. 

In some pornos they use lube. In others they just use spit, so Barry figures he’ll start with the basics and take it from there. Shifting his weight onto his left hand, he brings the right hand up to his mouth and slips the middle finger inside, working his jaw to coax up a thick coating of saliva. He keeps his gaze fixed on the plaid duvet cover as he reaches blindly behind him, his thumb tracing the way down over his tailbone and his slippery fingertip tentatively poking about until he presses against a tight ring of muscle. It clenches even tighter when he touches it, and it’s almost enough to make Barry lose his nerve. Then he squeezes his eyes shut and starts rubbing his fingertip in a shaky clockwise circle. 

The spit seems to dry up in seconds. Barry is reluctant to stick the digit in his mouth again, so he holds it below his pursed lips and dribbles a glob of saliva onto the pad of his fingerprint, then reaches back and finds his target with much better accuracy on the second attempt. He rubs more insistently now, around and around until he finally just grits his teeth and goes for it, pushing against the resistance until it gives way and his finger slips in up to the first knuckle. 

“_Nnh_—!”

Barry arches his back and drops his head with a stifled grunt. It doesn’t feel _good_, exactly. It feels tight. Not quite painful, but right at the edge of it. He’ll have to take this nice and slow. In a gesture not unlike turning a key, Barry gingerly twists his fingertip back and forth, locked and unlocked and locked again, his breathing short and staggered as he works away the sting. He stares down at the way the comforter pillows up around his left hand, his fingers all fanned out and his memorial bracelet digging into his wrist. He can focus on that. He doesn’t have to think about anything else.

After a bit of work, Barry musters up the courage to try pulling his fingertip out and then sliding it in again. He sucks in a breath when it’s noticeably easier to get back inside this time. Encouraged, he brings his hand back up to his mouth to make another messy deposit of spit, then reaches behind him and presses his finger in up to the first knuckle— further— the second knuckle, _god_— his voice judders out of him in a long, low groan, his left hand tightening into a fist in the duvet cover. Okay, _now_ it’s starting to feel good. 

Warming up to it, Barry twists his finger a little harder, again and again like he’s trying to start a car engine that just won’t turn over. There’s a matching sense of anticipation growing inside of him, his body straining towards something more, something stronger. As his wrist keeps turning, Barry tries sliding his finger in and out at the same time— _shit_— oh, that’s good, that’s really good— Barry hawks up another woozy mouthful of saliva and sets to it in earnest, twisting and thrusting with his middle finger until his mouth is hanging open and his forehead is beaded with sweat, his t-shirt turning damp at the chest and armpits. 

It’s funny, but even with a finger shoved up his ass, Barry doesn’t feel nearly as queer as he thought he would. If anything he’s almost reassured by how much he does _not_ want to be seen by another man right now. The very thought is almost too humiliating to bear. To be so vulnerable, so exposed in every sense; Barry can’t think of a single man alive that he would trust to see him in this condition. Except, of course—

_Fuches_.

The name takes him out like a sniper shot, brutal and unexpected. Barry’s eyes go wide on impact, his breath caught and his jaw clenched as the shock reverberates through his body, the damage done. It’s not even the name itself that hits so hard. It’s the fact that Barry _knows_, in an instant and down to his core, that it’s true. 

Of course. Fuches. The exception to every one of Barry’s rules, from the surest moral bedrock to the slightest personal boundaries. Every time Barry thinks they’ve finally reached a _never_, Fuches always finds a way to turn it into a _well, maybe sometimes_. He doesn’t even need to say anything, doesn’t even need to be _there_— hell, he did it just now, letting himself into Barry’s headspace as easily as he lets himself into Barry’s apartment. He doesn’t have to knock; Barry already gave him the key. And even though Barry checked the chain twice — _twice_ — it takes all of his willpower in that instant not to jerk his head around and look towards the front door. If he does that, he just knows that Fuches will somehow be standing there, hands on his hips, having seen the whole goddamn thing.

And before he can stop himself, Barry thinks—

_If only_.

It’s the second sniper shot, and just like the first, Barry never sees it coming. He should be mortified by the prospect— he should be appalled at the very idea— and yet he _knows_, in an instant and down to his core, that he wants more than anything for Fuches to be there.

Because if Fuches catches him like this, then he never has to ask for it. 

Startled and flustered, Barry tugs his hand free and drops into a defensive huddle, his chest pressed down over his knees and his bare ass sitting on his heels. His left arm tucks against his belly but his right arm gets abandoned out on the field like a wounded soldier left behind in a hasty retreat, the hand curled into a reflexive fist. Heat flushes Barry’s face and he buries it in his pillow to alleviate the sting. For a long moment all he can do is crouch there in numb silence, his heart pounding and his eyes screwed shut. He can practically feel the weight of Fuches’s gaze on the back of his skull. They’re both thinking the same thing.

Barry didn’t ask the first time, either. 

He never said a word. He just crawled over into Fuches’s lap and Fuches let him because Barry was _right_ and Fuches _knew_ it. Barry can be sure of that now, because these days Fuches is just as likely to be the one to get them started, reaching over after a couple of beers to rub his hand on Barry’s thigh, his touch deliberate and unmistakable. They’ve got a real good thing going on between them and it never would have happened if Barry waited around until he worked up the guts to say something. Besides, he’s pretty sure that if he _had_ asked, Fuches would have said no.

And it’s funny, but every once in a while it’s almost like Fuches isn’t the only one who can turn a _never_ into a _well, maybe sometimes_.

Barry swallows hard, his pulse roaring in his ears. Now that the thought is in his head he knows he’ll never be able to outrun it. He’s just glad there’s no one there to see him as he raises his head, his eyes still closed, and turns his face towards the door. 

There’s Fuches, leaning against the corner, his head cocked at an angle that conveys amusement and affection in equal measure. 

“So,” he says. “This is what you get up to when I’m not around, huh? Wouldn’t have pegged you for this sort of thing, Barry.”

He laughs at his own pun while Barry fights the initial instinct to bolt for the bathroom and lock himself in. He just has to keep breathing. Of course Fuches would tease him. That’s just how they do things. And Barry wouldn’t be able to answer, his eyes huge and paralyzed, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. Then Fuches would smile and shake his head, his open hands held up to show that, as always, he doesn’t really mean any harm. 

“Hey, no judgment here, man. Everybody gets curious.” 

But he wouldn’t stay too far for too long. He never does. In a sudden panic Barry twists his face down into the comforter and squeezes his eyes shut so tight that he sees stars. The back of his neck burns with a messy combination of shame and arousal as he imagines the mattress sinking towards the weight of another person sitting down on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t lift his head. He can’t bear to look. 

“It’s okay, buddy,” Fuches says, low and quiet. “It’s okay. I’m gonna help you out with that.” 

The comforter does a poor job of muffling Barry’s high-pitched whimper of relief. He can just imagine the reassuring way that Fuches would tousle his hair before his hand travels lower, a long stroke painted down the length of Barry’s spine while Barry moans and arches up onto his knees to meet him, barely aware of his own hand reaching back to fill the empty space. He doesn’t even think to add more spit— he just pushes in like Fuches would, confident in Barry’s ability to take anything he dishes out. 

“Boy,” Fuches chuckles beside him. “You were ready for that, weren’t you? You must want it pretty bad.”

Once he was inside, Fuches would get right to work testing his limits. Barry starts to twist his wrist again, slow and experimental at first, the tempo getting harder and faster as his breathing does the same. He’s hyper aware of the vocal edge creeping into his exhales, a dumb, needy sound that comes from somewhere that Barry didn’t even know existed. Fuches would definitely notice. 

“Oh, you like that?” He wriggles his finger for emphasis. “I think you like that. In fact, I think you want some more. What do you think, Barry?”

Alone in his apartment, Barry ducks his head and gasps out loud, “Yeah. Yeah, I want it.” 

Quick and clumsy, he jerks his middle finger free so he can pair it with his index finger, the digits pressed together and then immediately pressed back against their target. Barry tries to get them inside again, but the ring of muscle that seemed so inviting only a second ago now seems impossibly tight, or else his fingers impossibly big. He pushes and wiggles, then brings his hand up to his mouth for a dribble of saliva in an attempt to hurry things along. It’s no use. The spit isn’t nearly enough, and the more Barry insists, the more it starts to hurt. He’s grunting and straining in helpless frustration when suddenly he hears Fuches’s voice right next to his ear. 

“C’mon, Barry, use your resources. You got anything we could use under the sink?”

Leave it to Fuches to actually use his head. Sure, of course, there’s got to be _something_ in there that would work. Barry stumbles off the bed and into the bathroom, where he yanks open the cabinet and drops to his knees to rummage through the contents with his left hand. He keeps his right hand up in the air like a surgeon prepped for the operating theatre, his eyes deliberately averted from the sight of it. Okay, they’ve got toilet paper, cough medicine, the unused second tube of a BOGO toothpaste package— Barry sees a blue plastic lid and grabs it.

“Vaseline.” Fuches nods his approval as Barry comes back to the bed. “Oh, yeah, that’ll do the trick.”

It’s tricky to pop the lid off one-handed but Barry manages it, his heart pounding and his dick throbbing as he scoops out a little mound of jelly and spreads it over the first two digits of his right hand. In his mind’s eye he’s watching Fuches do the same thing, calm and unhurried, his gaze flicking up to meet Barry’s and give him a wink. Barry looks away, flustered, trying not to laugh out of sheer nervousness. When he looks back again there’s nothing but his own two hands and the empty bed. 

He closes his eyes. 

“Okay,” says Fuches. “Ready when you are.” 

That’s more like it.

Eyes still emphatically shut, Barry gets on his knees and settles his weight over his left hand. He reaches back with his right arm, but he doesn’t touch himself, not yet. Instead he skims his thumb in circles around his tailbone, the same way that Fuches does when he reaches over to put his hand on Barry’s thigh, deliberate and unmistakable. Barry remembers the first time he looked down and realized what Fuches was doing, his thumb rubbing a clockwise pattern over Barry’s pajama flannel, his fingers right at the edge of curling into the space between Barry’s legs.

This was at the old apartment, the one-bedroom with the big ugly couch in front of the TV. Barry could have sworn they’d left at least a cushion’s worth of space between them when they sat down that night, but then all at once there was Fuches’s hand on his thigh, as heavy and warm as a weighted security blanket. It was an anchor, too, as the rest of Barry’s body promptly lost all sense of space and gravity, completely untethered from the surface of the earth. 

It was nine days since he’d clumsily slid down between Fuches’s legs and Fuches made no attempt to stop him. Nine days without a single word spoken on the subject, long enough that Barry had already discreetly stashed the memory away in a file labeled _That Night_. Now, with Fuches’s thumb rubbing circles into his skin, he’d known in a rush of weightless clarity that the memory had a new label: _The First Time_.

Alone on his hand and knees, Barry tries to mimic the way that Fuches coaxes him with that thumb— the pattern, the pressure, the _patience_. It’s so much more than just a simple gesture; it’s an exact science, a language unto itself. Since they can’t ever talk about it out loud, they’ve had to create a whole new vocabulary of touches and glances. Fuches is fluent. Barry’s reading comprehension is unmatched, but sometimes he still struggles with the verbal expression. He strokes his thumb around his tailbone, a passable imitation of Fuches’s touch spoken with a thick Barry accent. His left hand is still braced on the bed, but in a dizzying rush he realizes that Fuches would have one hand free, and suddenly the possibilities are endless. 

His first anxious thought is that Fuches might keep that hand to himself, resting absentmindedly in his lap, spared from any squandered effort. But no, no— even Barry knows that just isn’t true. Fuches _always_ uses both hands. He’s never been shy about it, not in here and certainly not out there, all grabs and hugs and slaps on the back even when they’re out in the open, totally exposed. Barry will take it with brittle caution, but he can rarely bring himself to reciprocate. It’s too personal. Too private. He’s afraid that if he ever reached for Fuches where anyone could see, then _everyone_ would know what it means— everyone would know just _how much_ Barry—

_(loves)_

— cares about him. 

But that’s out there. In here it’s different. No one has to see, no one has to know. It’s just the two of them, and they both understand, and that’s all that matters.

No, Fuches wouldn’t let that free hand go to waste. He never does. Sometimes it’s almost too much, rough fingers carding through Barry’s hair and digging into his shoulders, pushed up under his shirt and then down into his jeans, _fuck_, he can go days without physical contact with a single human being and it doesn’t even matter because Fuches can make up the deficit in about ten minutes flat. Fuches probably touches Barry more than Barry touches himself. If they ever dusted him and stuck him under a blacklight, they’d find Fuches’s fingerprints on every inch of his skin. 

_Ladies and gentlemen, tonight the role of Fuches’s Free Hand will be played by Barry’s Free Hand._

Except Barry doesn’t have a free hand, not in this tripod position. He’ll have to improvise. The easiest and most undignified solution would be to just drop his face and shoulders to take his weight— and, well, dignity is overrated. Down he goes, face in the pillows and ass in the air, his whole left arm now cleared for action. He keeps his right hand braced on the small of his back, two slick fingers held up to maintain the integrity of their vaseline coating. Fuches would probably be able to keep making the circles with his thumb, but Barry’s not used to handling himself like this. He can only concentrate on one thing at a time. 

“C’mon, what’s this?” Fuches prompts, tugging at the hem of Barry’s t-shirt. “Let’s get this thing out of the way.” 

Barry nods his head against the pillowcase and fumbles to ruck the shirt up along his back. He doesn’t trust his balance enough to actually sit up and take the garment off, so he just shoves it into his armpits, exposing as much of himself as possible, per Fuches’s command. When he touches himself again it’s Fuches’s hand on his bare belly, his touch painting a red hot stripe from hip to hip while Barry gasps and shudders. 

“There we go,” Fuches hums with satisfaction. “That’s better.” 

Barry’s subsequent moan is crushed into the pillow as he arches his back, his hand traveling over his stomach and chest, fingers sliding up under the t-shirt to stroke his throat. Fuches gives an amused chuckle when Barry swallows hard under his touch. Then he makes his way to the carotid artery, where the pads of his fingertips are instantly jackhammered by Barry’s thundering pulse. 

“Jesus,” Fuches huffs next to his ear. “Don’t have a heart attack, Barry. Breathe. C’mon, bud, gimme a few deep breaths.”

Eager to obey him, Barry twists his head with a gasp, his face turned up from the pillowcase like a marathon swimmer coming up for air. He’s so lost in his own stupid head that he actually looks back over his shoulder with his eyes wide open. 

It hits him like a kick in the chest. 

_ **Can’t make it. See you tomorrow.** _

Hot, angry tears fill his eyes before he can jam his face back into the pillow and put a stop to it. It’s hard to take those deep breaths when he’s practically suffocating, but he does the best that he can, his chest tight and straining with effort. God, he would give anything to be watching _Indiana Jones_ right now. 

_And he doesn’t know why but all at once he’s thinking of that time when they both fell asleep slumped against the headboard of the bed with_ The French Connection _playing on the TV and sometime in the darkest quietest part of the night Barry woke up with his head on Fuches’s chest and a weight around his shoulders and it took him a moment to realize that it was Fuches’s arm draped around him holding him close and Fuches was snoring and Barry could hear his heart beating right under his ear and he stayed there for what felt like hours watching the growing patch of damp on Fuches’s shirt as tears kept running out of his bewildered eyes until he fell into the sort of exhausted sleep that let him pretend the whole thing was just a bad dream. _

_He woke up again, right before dawn, and saw with relief that Fuches’s shirt was dry. _

_The third time he woke up alone. _

With his face shoved down into the pillow, Barry still has one hand free to push slowly up the side of his neck and into his damp, sweaty hair. His fingers are shaking but he tries to imagine how steady Fuches’s fingers would be, how confident, how assured. He scratches his nails on Barry’s scalp, light and soothing. 

“Hey, it’s okay, buddy. I’m here. I’m right here.” 

“Fuches,” Barry sobs into the pillowcase, the name seared onto his tongue like a brand. 

“I know,” Fuches murmurs, petting Barry’s aching head. “I’ve got you.” 

He presses the heel of his right hand against the base of Barry’s spine and Barry sobs again, a low barking sound that makes his whole body jerk as though struck. 

“Fuches,” he whines. “Fuches, _please_—”

“Jesus, Barry,” Fuches chuckles, not entirely unkind. “I said I know. Don’t rush me.” 

The ache in Barry’s chest is not quite pain and not quite pleasure. It’s something else, something that might be described as _piercing_, or maybe _profound_. Whatever it is runs right through him, punching a hole down into his spinal cord and then out through the center of his ribcage, his lungs and heart and everything else falling out of him and into a sloppy heap on the bed. Fuches doesn’t seem to notice the mess— or if he does, he’s gracious enough to make no comment on the matter. 

“Here,” he says instead, and he takes his fingers out of Barry’s hair. 

And that’s a wrap on Fuches’s Free Hand. It’s Barry’s Free Hand once more as he gets it back underneath him, thinking he might try to get up on his hand and knees again. It takes about two seconds for him to figure out that the attempt is futile. His left arm, like the rest of him, is as weak and jittery as an addict in withdrawal. The best he can do is prop himself up on his elbow, his forearm braced across the mattress below. With no conscious effort, his thumb starts tracing those last few circles around his tailbone, coaxing him right up to the edge of the diving board. 

“You ready for this?” Fuches’s thumb moves lower, lower. “Two this time. I think you can take it. What do you think, Barry?”

“Y-yeah,” Barry jerks his chin up and down, frantic. “I can take it. I know I can.” 

“That’s my boy.” 

Barry squeezes his vaseline-slicked fingers together behind his back. The two digits end up partially crossed, as if wishing for luck — or else breaking a promise — but either way formed into a point better angled for entry. Barry presses them right up against himself, tense and trembling with anticipation. He’s so desperate to say something that his mouth feels like it’s stuffed full of hornets, but he doesn’t dare, he doesn’t dare say a word—

“Say it, Barry,” Fuches murmurs in his ear. “I want to hear you say it.” 

“Hnnnnh—” Barry’s face screws tight in agony as the hornets come spiraling up his throat and out of his dry, parched lips in a scream. “_Fuck!_” 

The word rips out of him like the first spray of a ruptured artery. After that comes the rush of blood, his tongue untied, his guts spilling out of him in waves. 

“Ugh, Fuches, I want you to do it— god, I want you to do it so bad— I want it to be you— I want— I want—” He’s babbling like a lunatic and he knows he couldn’t stop it anymore than he could stop his own delirious heart. “I want you. I want _you_. I want—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Fuches says, his voice hoarse. “I got the idea.”

There’s pressure— oh, it does hurt, a slow hurt— Barry wheezes through clenched teeth as Fuches fills him by degrees, the limit reached and breached and god _god_ there’s the knuckles digging into his rump and Barry knows that Fuches is all the way in. 

“Oh, wow,” Fuches gives a sigh of approval. “Look at you. First try. You’re so good.” 

“Yeah?” Barry gasps. “Am I good? Is this good?”

“It’s really good, Barry.” Fuches’s voice is low and soothing. “Now all you have to do is relax. Relax, bud. I’ve got you.” 

Barry focuses on his breathing, counting three seconds for every inhale and exhale, his eyes closed in concentration. At first the only thing he feels is _full_, a fullness that seems to stretch his whole body to the breaking point, every muscle drawn as tight as a bowstring. The slightest wrong move seems like it would split him wide open so he stays as still as he can, his face dripping sweat down onto his braced forearm. Fuches doesn’t rush him. He leaves both fingers buried up to the hilt and waits patiently for Barry to accept them, his thumb tracing a gentle pattern at the base of Barry’s spine. 

It’s like coming out of a dark movie theatre into a sunny day. Barry adjusts by gradual intervals, his squint eventually fading until what seemed at first too bright to bear is now not only bearable, but actually quite pleasant. 

_Pleasant_. That’s one way to describe it. 

“Ohhhhh Christ,” Barry moans, his head lolling between his heaving shoulders. “Oh shit, Fuches, that’s— ah, god— that feels _so_ good.” 

“Good, good,” Fuches croons. “I want you to feel good, Barry. You know that, right?”

Maybe it’s just sweat dripping from Barry’s face and maybe it’s tears, too. It doesn’t matter. 

“I know,” he chokes out. “I know.” 

They don’t have to talk about it. That’s not how they do things. Barry doesn’t even know what he would say, anyway. He just wants Fuches to fill him up until he doesn’t have room inside of him for anything else. 

“I’m ready,” he pants. “Fuches, please— I want it— I need it.”

“Okay, bud,” Fuches says. “Deep breath. Here we go.” 

Barry sucks down a desperate lungful of air as Fuches withdraws almost all the way to his fingertips— oh god, it’s like Barry is being pulled inside out, a terrible vacuum forming in Fuches’s absence, empty, _empty_—

“Wait, wait—” Barry whines, his hips arched in protest. “Don’t— _ah!_”

He breaks off into a strangled yelp as Fuches pushes all the way back into him, quick and smooth and _deep_, god, so deep that Barry feels it in the pit of his stomach, his eyes rolling back in his head and his jaw going slack in astonishment. He can barely manage another gulp of oxygen before Fuches pulls out and then thrusts again, harder, _deeper_— fuck, how is that even possible— again— oh, _again_— the great thing about vaseline is that it doesn’t dry out. It’s not a water-based lubricant, so it just stays nice and wet. 

“Hnh, _fuck_,” Barry whimpers, his eyes squeezed shut, his brow pressed down into his forearm. “Yeah, that’s— _mmh_— Fuches— _Fuches_—”

“Uh huh,” Fuches grunts. “That’s right. You like that, Barry? You like taking it in the ass?”

_Holy shit_, Barry thinks in genuine amazement. _I guess I do._

He tries to say it out loud, but it seems that his tongue has become completely disconnected from his brain. 

“_Guhhhhh_—” he wheezes. “Hngh— _ugh_—!”

Fuches is really pounding him now, pumping in and out of him like a piston, hard and fast and relentless. The sound is unbelievably obscene, and in the desolate apartment it sounds impossibly loud. It’s crazy, but— that big heavy ring, the one that Fuches always wears on the third finger of his right hand— Barry could swear that he feels it jabbing into his ass on every thrust. God, he must really be going nuts. 

“Oh, you fucking _love_ this, don’t you?” Fuches laughs, out of breath, working up a sweat as he works Barry into a frenzy. “Yeah, I always knew you would. Shit, Barry, you’re a natural. You’re taking it like a champ. C’mon, keep up with me, now.” 

At first Barry doesn’t know what he means by that last part. Then Fuches twists his fingers downwards, hooking them into a come-hither gesture that curls towards Barry’s stomach as he plunges the length of them in and out again in an instant replay of a kamikaze dive. 

And he— hits— _something_—

The shriek that explodes into Barry’s mouth is so shrill and so pathetic that he has to do everything in his power to keep Fuches from hearing it. In a blind fumble he lunges forward and bites down on himself, muffling his cry in the meat of his forearm, his teeth dug in hard enough to bruise. Fuches thrusts again, fingers bent just so— _direct hit_— Barry’s eyes boil with tears and his cock jumps between his legs like a dog yanking at the end of its leash. He didn’t know he could do that. 

“Shit,” he pants. “Fuches— what is that— that’s— _fuck!_”

And he thought Fuches was working him hard before. That was nothing compared to this— this _onslaught_— Barry can feel Fuches reaching all the way up inside of him and twisting his fingers around in his guts, flicking at the same white-hot point again and again like someone plucking the same note on a guitar string over and over except the note is so _loud_ and so _big_ and so _deep_ that it rattles Barry’s nerves until he’s close to screaming. He tastes blood and realizes distantly that he’s bitten through the skin of his arm. It takes the last of his remaining sense to shift his teeth into the pillow, gathering a mouthful and biting down hard while Fuches wrenches him back and forth like a goddamn shark attack. 

“_God!_” he sobs, or maybe it’s “_Fuches!_” 

Same thing at this point, really. 

“You gonna come for me, Barry?” Fuches growls. “C’mon, baby, I wanna see you come all over yourself. Do it for me. C’mon.” 

Barry’s left hand flails around beyond his control, a drowning man grasping for purchase, slapping against the headboard and tearing at the sheets in a helpless fever. Finally he settles on yanking his own hair while he howls into the pillow with all the breath in his lungs, his cock so hard and heavy that it’s about to discharge without him ever laying a finger on the trigger. All the while Fuches keeps hammering him, _merciless_, striking again and again at that _spot_, the mounting pressure so intense that Barry feels it throbbing behind his watering eyes. 

“Yeah, that’s my boy,” Fuches huffs. “That’s it. Almost there. God, you’re so good, Barry, you’re so fucking _good_—” 

Shit _shit_ he’s going faster _faster_ and Barry can feel himself reaching terminal velocity and he’s just about to really and truly lose his goddamn mind when suddenly he _comes_ oh god he comes so hard he doesn’t even realize that’s what’s happening and he’s afraid he might be dying. It doesn’t even feel good, it just feels _colossal_, too vast to process until the wave crests and breaks and starts to come down. Barry is standing on the beach and wondering where all the water went when the tsunami slams into him from behind and rips him right off the ground. 

“_Fuches!_” he sobs, or maybe it’s “_God!_” 

Same thing at this point, really. 

The word _orgasm_ doesn’t even begin to describe it. Barry can feel his cock going off like a grenade between his legs, thick jets of come splattering his belly and the sheets while something else cracks and bursts apart inside of him, a surge of gut-wrenching pleasure that bolts up and down the length of his spine like the high striker at a carnival. It’s so intense that Barry tries to run away from it, his weight lurching forward until he catches himself against the headboard, his mouth torn open in a silent wail. There’s no way he should be able to keep up the tempo with his right hand, but somehow that inexorable pace never lets up, those two fingers yanking back on the trigger again and again until there’s not a single round left in the clip. 

Yeah, that’s Fuches, all right. 

“Ah, yeah, Barry,” he breathes. “Boy, you really needed this, huh? Yeah, you needed to get good and fucked.”

Barry comes until there’s nothing left but the click of an empty chamber, his insides hollow, his mouth and eyes burning from the smoke. He genuinely thinks he’s on the verge of passing out when the wave finally recedes and he can breathe again, his chest convulsing as he rushes towards the relief. Oh, god, he can feel Fuches all the way up under his lungs, his fingers thrust so deep that they brush against the surface of Barry’s damaged, devoted heart.

_Take it_, Barry wants to say. _It’s yours_.

But all he can do is gulp and shake and moan until he’s absolutely spent— until his strength gives out and he finally collapses to the bed in a sweaty, shivering heap. 

He’s glad to be alone, then. He doesn’t need Fuches to see him like this, crying into the pillow while the sweat dries on his back and the jizz dries on his belly. Not that this would be the first time that Fuches has seen him in bad shape— they’ve weathered their share of nightmares together, Barry wracked with grief and ghosts until he’s shaken back to his senses and pulled into Fuches’s arms, pinioned like a dog in a thundershirt until the storm passes and he stops howling. But that’s different. Barry knows why he has nightmares. He doesn’t know why he’s like this now, mute and prone with tears running out of his bewildered eyes while he stares at the bite mark on his left forearm, a perfect impression of his teeth outlined in brilliant red. There is that small, slim chance that Fuches might be kind if he saw Barry in this condition. There’s a much better chance, however, that he would be tough, and Barry doesn’t know if he could handle tough right now. 

Still. If he’s daydreaming about best-case scenarios, he might as well go all the way.

“Hey, Barry,” Fuches murmurs from somewhere close by. “You okay, bud?”

If Barry keeps his eyes shut he can see Fuches sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand reaching down to curl around the back of Barry’s neck. Barry groans and burrows his head towards Fuches’s touch, his own exhausted fingers tangling in his damp, dark hair. 

“Fuches,” he pants. “Can you stay? Please, will you just— stay with me?”

“Sure, Barry,” Fuches’s hand settles down on him, heavy and reassuring. “Whatever you want.” 

Barry squirms into a more comfortable position, his right arm tucked under him and out of sight, his left arm crooked up so he can rest that hand on the back of his head. He knows he’s a mess in every sense of the word. Tonight he’ll have to strip the bed and take a shower, then spend tomorrow going up and down the four flights of stairs from his apartment to the laundry room in the basement of his building. The machines are coin-operated, which is a fucking ripoff according to Fuches, who taught Barry as a teenager how to scam them with drinking straws. These days Barry dutifully uses quarters, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted every time. 

God, his whole body aches like he just ran a forced march in full gear, his legs and chest burning from the strain. Sprawled on his stomach, Barry tries not to be too self-conscious about how exposed he is, even though everything between the base of his spine and the back of his thighs feels like it’s pulsing like a neon sign. He focuses on Fuches’s touch instead, his fingernails scratching affectionately at the nape of Barry’s neck. Sometimes he can be a real bastard, but sometimes— sometimes he can be just like this. And in Barry’s opinion, it’s always worth the wait. There’s just one thing he needs to figure out.

“Fuches,” he mumbles into the crook of his arm. “Does this mean I’m queer?”

And he wouldn’t have said anything, except he feels so safe, and so drowsy, and besides he hasn’t asked in a long while and now is probably a good time to check. He’s afraid that he won’t like the answer, but to his immense relief, Fuches just laughs and tousles his hair. 

“Hey, c’mon, man, relax! You’re overthinking it! Don’t get yourself all bent out of shape.” Fuches cups his hand on the back of Barry’s neck, warm and steady. “It’s just you and me, Barry. That’s all. It doesn’t have to be anything else, does it?” 

“No,” Barry admits. “I guess not.” He sighs, the worry safely dismissed for another day. “Thanks, Fuches.” 

“No problem, bud. That’s what I’m here for.” 

_Oh._

The words are meant to comfort him, but instead they’re the first crack in the illusion, a rough shoulder thrown against the door that’s keeping reality at bay. With a harsh gasp Barry screws his eyes shut and clenches his fist in his hair— _oh, it’s just his fist now, just him_— the doorframe is about to splinter apart and the real world is about to come kick his ass but for just one more second he’s not alone, _he’s not alone_—

“Fuches,” he whispers through gritted teeth. “I wish you were really here.” 

“Yeah,” Fuches whispers back. “Me too.” 

Barry wishes more than anything he could believe that was true— but if it was, they’d be watching _Indiana Jones_ right now.

And Barry is here alone. 

He’s had his eyes closed for so long that the dim apartment interior might as well be the surface of the sun, and he has to force his protesting eyelids apart with a conscious effort. At least he can say that his gaze is only watering because it’s too bright. Barry rolls over onto his back with a groan, wincing as his shoulder rubs against a cold, wet smear of come. He just barely manages to stop himself from reaching up to scratch his nose with his right hand. Man, that really would have been the cherry on top of the sundae. 

Nothing left to do now except clean up the crime scene. Barry forces his exhausted mind to form a plan of action— get up, eat cold pizza— wait, wait, make that get up, _wash hands_, eat cold pizza— he’ll toss the dirty sheets on the floor and sleep on the bare mattress after a long, hot shower that washes away all of the evidence except for those goddamn fingerprints. Tomorrow he’ll spend the day waiting for Fuches to contact him whenever Fuches sees fit. He’ll never apologize for bailing on the movie tonight, but Barry knows that he’ll make it up to him somehow. Sooner or later Fuches always ends up taking care of Barry in his own way, and for Barry, that’s more than enough. And when Barry is alone again for too long, at least he’s got a great new idea for how to disrupt the old routine. 

One thing he knows for sure: next time he’s leaving the chain off the door. 

_end.


End file.
